


Same as Mine

by Tallihensia



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Missing Scene, Possibly Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 11:02:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4664121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tallihensia/pseuds/Tallihensia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They had thought they were done with the mission, but not so in the eyes of their handlers.  Solo finds a way out for them, and Illya angsts.  </p><p>“Back then, Napoleon had another chance to kill the Russian, and he hadn’t taken it, because it hadn’t seemed like the thing to do.  Now, it seemed even less like the thing to do.  Napoleon hadn’t rescued him from the frigid waters only to shoot him now.” </p><p>“Illya had never been a rebel before. It was a surprisingly comfortable position to be in.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tainry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tainry/gifts).



> Warnings: none  
> Spoilers: Movie
> 
> This is from the end of the movie - don't read unless you've seen the movie as it contains MAJOR spoilers. It also won't make as much sense unless you've seen the movie.
> 
> Disclaimer: Only mine in my dreams. This story was written for free entertainment purposes only and may not be reproduced for profit or altered without permission.
> 
> Notes:  
> Takes place towards end of movie. Expansion of the movie and missing scene from after Napoleon throws Illya his watch. Initial physical actions and dialog from the movie up through “same as mine” paragraph by Napoleon. After that, story goes AU with ‘missing scene’. Illya’s pov covers a slightly longer timeframe before and after, and floats in and out of the movie and AU. Direct copy not intended, actual dialog used to bolster the effect of expanding on AU speculation. Highlight of movie portions can be provided upon request. Note that the dialog doesn’t always match *exactly*, either between the movie, or even from their own povs. They each experience things differently, and what they say and do is weighted by their own experience. Ask anybody in a room during an event – it’s all different. Though I tried to keep them close enough for no major discrepancies. 
> 
> Second part goes over the same events, only from an expanded time set, and Illya’s pov. It’s twice as long as Napoleon’s. Partly because of more time in there, but also just because Illya angsts more. ^^; Hey, I write it as I see it. :)
> 
> Note – none of the main characters knew about there being two disks, so that’s the way I wrote it. Yes, we knew… they didn’t. Also - per wiki, the gulag was called that by Americans, not from the Russians themselves of the time period.
> 
> Happy Birthday, Tainry. :)

## Same as Mine

### Napoleon POV

Cheerfully humming as he packed, Napoleon reflected that it was a very good day indeed. Victoria Vinciguerra was dead. Her husband was dead. Uncle Rudi was dead. They were alive, and the mission was a success.

It had been touch and go there for awhile – too many parameters and everybody had mucked up during it. Illya had screwed up, Napoleon had screwed up, Gaby had screwed up, Waverly had screwed up… but they’d worked it through, improvised, worked harder, smarter, come back together again, and completed it. Twice. 

This pretty much had to be the best mission ever. Not in each and every part of it – Napoleon still winced over the alarm on the vault door – but in the way it had really flowed as a whole and come out on top. And they were all alive, and the enemy was dead. Definitely a win.

There was a knock at the door and Napoleon glanced at the clock in surprise. He hadn’t finished packing yet. Woolgathering too much. Or sleeping in. 

Cheerfully, he went to let Illya in. The Russian was all doom and gloom as he walked quietly in. Probably due to the fact that there was no Gaby beside him. Napoleon really hadn’t expected she would, but that had to have been a problematic goodbye for them.

Telling Illya to fix them some drinks, Napoleon went back to his packing.

He’d never let a woman get that close to him. Romance them, yes, love them, yes, enjoy them. Respect them for who and what they were – he didn’t make the mistake of thinking women were any less than men. He’d known many men who were less, and many women who were more. It was all in the individual. Gaby was definitely at the higher end of the spectrum, and a strong person. It wasn’t too surprising that the Russian had fallen for her.

Well, yes, it was a surprise. Illya had seemed initially to be too much the KGB agent to have any human feelings, let alone something as vulnerable as that had been.

It didn’t matter now, they were parted and each going their separate ways.

“I guess it’s business as usual now,” Napoleon reflected as he put his clothes carefully in the cases. “Back to how things were.”

There was no reply from the Russian, and Napoleon leaned out to look at him, needling a bit at their supposed opposite sides. “Politics being what they are.”

The supposed became a lot more real as he took in the sick look on Illya’s face, and his attention directed to one side of Napoleon’s bed. Slowly, Illya’s gaze turned to meet Napoleon’s briefly, then continued past to the opposite side of the room. Perhaps the window. 

Napoleon turned a full circle as he went back to the suitcase, tracking where… oh. 

With a small, internal sigh, Napoleon cursed himself for thinking it was all over, when _that_ was still there. Putting down the shaving kit he’d been holding, he shifted his gun out to an easier grab. It was still holstered, but the movement had only been a precaution. This was Illya, after all.

Illya Kuryakin, the KGB’s best agent. 

Napoleon thought he might be sick himself. Gaby’s betrayal was nothing. Nothing at all. This… And there Napoleon had been, just priding himself on the fact that he’d never let a woman get that close to him. Nor ever a man, for that matter. It was somewhat of a surprise to find out he had. He hadn’t quite realized it. It never paid to be smug about other’s misfortunes – the world had a way of getting back at you for them.

 _I promise not to mock them in the future,_ Napoleon sent up a silent plea that was more of a curse. He knew how little fate listened.

“Are you… feeling okay?” Napoleon turned to face Illya directly, wanting to see what he could pry out of the Russian – something more definite… or something to dispel his suspicions. 

Illya’s gaze reluctantly met his, and the other agent didn’t say anything. He just gave a miserable nod and a forced smile.

Why did they have to be on opposite sides? Why did Illya have to be such a good agent? Now completely sure of what was going on, Napoleon turned back to his packing, loosening his tie in preparation for action. Sadly, he also unholstered his gun though he left it in the suitcase. Not yet. Not until there was no choice. He glanced at the small mirror by his bed and watched Illya watching him. “So…” Napoleon decided to push it a bit more, in the guise of small talk that neither of them now believed. “What now? Mission accomplished… head back to Russia?”

“Something like this, yes,” Illya’s voice was smooth and even, not reflecting even a particle of the tension obviously inside of him. His gaze was more direct this time as well, as if a decision had been made. “You?”

Napoleon admired the voice control, though the earlier performance sucked. What did that mean, _something like that_? 

Napoleon replied absently to the conversation, his attention primarily on Illya, watching through the mirror. The other agent wasn’t even pretending with the drinks now, standing straight and tall, in an action stance, focused on Napoleon. As Napoleon watched, Illya slipped a hand inside his jacket, making his intentions clear. _Bastard,_ Napoleon thought. He hated having his hand forced, but the Russian was leaving him little choice.

Napoleon picked his own gun up, wrapping his fingers around the butt and getting ready to turn. He hadn’t wanted it to come to this. From the slowness of Illya’s actions, the Russian hadn’t wanted it either. Apparently, still didn’t want it, or Napoleon would be dead already. 

Illya could be faster than lightning when he wanted to, dodging Napoleon’s bullets that first day before they even knew each other. Now, he moved like molasses and looked pale and unwell. Back then, Napoleon had another chance to kill the Russian, and he hadn’t taken it, because it hadn’t seemed like the right thing to do. Now, it seemed even less like the thing to do. Certainly not the right thing. Napoleon hadn’t rescued him from the frigid waters only to shoot him now.

Napoleon glanced again at his open suitcases, flicking his gaze to the computer tape sitting under his waist jacket at the far end. He almost wished he hadn’t picked it up from the wet ground, there at the end after Illya had killed Alexander Vinciguerra. He should have left it there. Let somebody else pick it up. That wouldn't have fulfilled his mission, however, and he'd been so smug about that before. He'd known it was out in plain sight more or less, but he hadn't thought through what would happen to this rather logical conclusion. Yelling, mostly, maybe a fistfight. He’d actually been looking forward to a fistfight, knowing he had a physical edge over the Russian right now. Putting Illya in a headlock would have been very satisfying. 

But Illya was an agent, probably a better one than Napoleon. Napoleon was a thief, and a spy, and he hated the CIA and the CIA hated him. Illya… was the pet of the KGB and practically raised among them. It was more than a job, it was his life, and he was their best. Napoleon knew darn well what Illya’s orders were – the same as his own. His mistake was in thinking that because he wasn’t going to follow through on his, that Illya wouldn’t either. Plus, Napoleon was the one with the tape. Illya was too good an agent to just let it go, and Napoleon had overlooked that part. The only saving grace at the moment was that Illya didn’t really want to and was dragging his feet something fierce. Napoleon had assumed right in that much, at least. 

This wasn’t going to end well.

In sick fury, Napoleon's gaze flitted to the other end of his packing, where he’d earlier put Illya’s watch. It was out and within easy reach as he’d planned to give to Illya this afternoon. He’d pictured the joy on Illya's face for getting something back he'd probably believed lost forever. He’d wanted to see that look, and had anticipated it, wanting the controlled expression to crack and maybe get a smile of his own for his efforts. Napoleon was an idiot, and he’d never be able to give the watch to Illya now.

Napoleon's thoughts paused, skipping from scenario to scenario, planning, thinking, evaluating possible reactions. Then he decided. _Why not,_ Napoleon thought. He could be signing his own death warrant, with Illya's reflexes honed to such a sharp edge. But he wanted the chance. Dropping the gun and picking up the watch, Napoleon turned and tossed it at Illya, talking quickly as he did so to hopefully make the Russian realize it wasn't anything harmful. “Almost forgot – got something for you.”

There was a split second where it almost looked like Illya would pull his gun, those instincts sure something bad was coming towards him, but instead he reached out with both hands to catch the watch. 

Settling into a careful stance, Napoleon watched as Illya quickly inspected the watch, flipping it over to see the back and the inscription there, verifying it was the real deal. He turned it to the front again, and with fumbling fingers, he put it on his wrist. Once it was secure, he looked across to Napoleon while obviously searching for words. The grim sickness that had been there while he’d been inching his way towards killing Napoleon was gone and instead hope now lived in his face. The difference made Illya look much younger, and incredibly innocent for what they had both been through. It wasn’t the look that Napoleon had anticipated, but it was a thousand times more precious and fragile.

With that same trembling hope, Illya cautiously asked, “Do you know what my mission is?” 

The last word was slurred, as close to a contraction in English as Illya had ever gotten. Or maybe it was the urge to use ‘was’ instead of ‘is’ there. Napoleon quirked a grim smile. That was the two of them, professionals to the end. 

“Same as mine was,” he replied quietly, careful still not to make any sudden moves towards the Russian. “To kill me, if necessary, to get that.” He laced the last word with distaste and revulsion, as he moved his waist jacket aside to reveal the computer tape in all its glory. It had been their mission that joined them reluctantly together, but in the end, the dividing point between them as well. Their countries each willing to do anything to get it. To unite together temporarily to keep it out of anybody else’s hands, and yet the ultimate goal to bring it home for themselves only.

There was a sound from the other room and Napoleon looked over to see Illya sliding down the wall in a controlled collapse to sit on the floor, his hands raising up to cover his face. There was no evidence of trembling in the fingers, just a general overall weariness. 

“I didn’t want to kill you,” Illya said quietly, his hands lowering, but his head still bowed down.

Napoleon snorted. “Oh, that was obvious, Peril.” He walked to his friend and sat next to him, back to the wall, arm touching Illya’s. 

Illya glanced sideways at him, not a question, but rather a quick check for injuries that had become automatic during their mission. Napoleon returned the favor. They both weren’t at their best anymore, with Napoleon’s lingering weakness from the shock treatments that had fried his insides out, and Illya’s lingering injuries from the motorcycle crashing down the hill. Up to this point, however, they’d both been carefully concealing it, presenting unblemished and fully healthy appearances to the world, ready for action as needed. And if action had been needed, they would have performed at their best. Collapse could always come after. It said something that Illya was now showing this weakness in front of Napoleon. 

“I didn’t want to kill you, either.” Napoleon returned the sentiment, just as quietly.

“I work best alone, but in great part because we are taught not to trust, to tear apart for weakness, to compete for best. They do not trust me, and I not them.” Illya didn’t so much turn the subject as bring it to the root of where they were. 

And here Napoleon had thought Illya was the pet of the KGB. But then, not all pets were treated well – it all depended on the owner. Well then. Nobody in the CIA trusted Napoleon at all – never had, and probably never would. Too much in his past, and he didn’t bother to hide his disdain for all of them either. He hadn’t thought that was a point he and Illya had in common. Napoleon quirked a grin, appreciating the irony. “Me too.” 

That had been the two of them at the beginning of this mission as well, distrustful and reluctant. Applying their years of knowledge to each other and expecting the same. Added to that, the complications of their countries being on the very edge of open hostilities. They had both expected nothing of each other beyond aggravation and hardships, to accomplish the mission despite the partnership, not because of. 

Yet instead this mission had brought them together in ways that Napoleon had never found with any other partner in the years he’d been an agent, or even as a soldier, though that came closer. They matched well together, he and the Russian. And Gaby too, even if they hadn’t known she was another agent until the end. The three of them, working an impossible task, against incredible odds, and succeeding. It was a heady experience, something probably never to be experienced ever again. Which is why they should be celebrating, not trying to kill each other now, after all of that.

“I wish that disk truly had blown up with ship!” Illya burst out, his anger and frustration not hidden in the least, his glare directed at the blue plastic on the bed as if his gaze alone could destroy it.

Napoleon blinked. “That… is a very good idea, my friend.”

Illya glanced at him, puzzled.

With a shrug, Napoleon glanced at the plastic disk, then looked back at Illya with his eyebrows raised.

Illya followed the look, then a smile spread across his face. “Yes. Yes, I think so too.” He nodded decisively, and the gloom that had been layered over him lifted like the sun returning. 

And that is what made them such good partners – they didn’t have to talk. Not about the important things. A little bit here and there, to lead or confirm, but other than a few rough starts at the beginning, they now interacted smoothly, connecting with plans and thoughts. They could be miles apart physically, and still working on the same plan that returned them together at the end to bring it to fulfilment, even if it hadn’t been spelled out ahead of time. Napoleon hadn’t ever worked with anybody like that before. In parts, yes, but not the full connection like the two of them seemed to have.

Napoleon put a bit more of his weight into leaning against Illya. He didn’t often do this. Others on him, yes, but not him upon another. 

Illya responded, taking the weight and reclining equally back. He made a movement of his arm as if he thought about shifting it over Napoleon’s shoulders, but in the end left them where they were. 

To himself, Napoleon admitted that he’d been fascinated with the Russian since the very start. When the very best he could do only barely got them out of Illya’s clutches by bare inches. The KGB agent hadn’t ever given up, and if he hadn’t been dropped in a minefield, Napoleon was sure he would have followed them right over the wall. Nobody was that good, that persistent. Nobody had ever come so close to capturing him before, even in his days as a thief. If Gaby had been a little less skillful herself driving the car during the chase, they would never have made it, and Napoleon wouldn’t have blamed her. Illya had just been that good. Inhuman, Napoleon had thought, but their mission since had proved that the Russian had a very human side indeed. Most of that had been shown to Gaby as the pseudo-innocent had softened the edges, but Napoleon had found his own angles as well. Somehow, his own defenses had disappeared like he'd never even had any up. Napoleon still wasn't quite sure when that had happened or how. But when the boat had caught on fire, Napoleon had known then that he wasn't ever going to leave Illya behind, one way or the other. When Illya had come back for him and rescued him from Rudi’s clutches, Napoleon had been sure of it.

“Don’t ever try to make me kill you again,” Napoleon said, back to the quietness of truths barely shared.

“I was one about to kill you,” Illya replied, his weight solid along Napoleon’s, his voice back to normal, confident and secure.

Napoleon shook his head. “Peril, I know you, and you weren’t even making an effort. You knew I knew. There was only one way that was going to end.”

“It would been self-defense.” Illya’s body rippled in a shrug as he apparently gave up the effort to deny it. Though he added, “Not that I’d thought it through.”

“Or thought about what I would feel, after.” Napoleon relaxed onto Illya.

“You would been alive,” Illya said definitively, like that was the only thing that mattered. He shrugged again. “I had not decided.”

“Don’t,” Napoleon said once more. “Not ever again.” He could and did kill if he had to, and didn’t really care about most of it beyond some basic regrets, but not Illya. He didn’t want to kill Illya, or ever come this close to it again.

“Alright, Cowboy,” Illya replied quietly, serious and sincere. Napoleon breathed a sigh of relief. If Illya said it, he’d trust it. He wouldn’t have to worry about that again. 

They both left unsaid that there wouldn’t be any more agains, that they would be each leaving today to return to the opposite sides. Napoleon to the American CIA, and Illya to the Russian KGB. This last drink together would truly be the last, a cap upon the mission and the unlikely partners they’d become.

Napoleon hadn’t been surprised that Gaby hadn’t joined them here at the last. She’d been their partner as well, but she had betrayed them. It had been part of the mission, and purely logical and the only thing that had kept the plan moving forward… but it was still a betrayal and Gaby would have felt it no less than they. They both had forgiven her, knowing they would have done the same. It remained to see, though, if she would forgive herself. And... it had lost something of that needed trust between them, with the mission coming first. It had nearly cost him his life, and while he forgave, Napoleon knew that he would always now look at Gaby with different eyes, with professional eyes to the mission end.

At the same time in this, the opposite had occurred between the unlikely partners. Illya had saved Napoleon’s life, and Napoleon, Illya’s. They were the ones who had expected betrayal or failure from the other, and instead found something very different together. There was no fear between the two of them now of the mission coming first. This was the final surprise test for them, and they both had passed. Or failed, depending on whose point of view one was looking at. Their handlers wouldn't be very happy with them. Tough. They would deal. And Napoleon and Illya would never see each other again. They would, though, never forget. One didn’t forget trust, or family, or gifts so unexpectedly received.

They sat quietly against the wall for some time, not doing or saying anything else. There wasn’t any need for it. Soaking in the time together until the end.

Eventually, Napoleon levered himself up, then turned around to give Illya a hand. The Russian took it unhesitantly and also stood, with a slight grimace as it pulled on his wounds. This close, Napoleon found himself tilting his head back to keep Illya’s face in view. He wasn’t used to being the short one. It was a surprisingly comfortable position to be in. 

After a moment, without any words, but without the awkwardness there might have been between other people, they dropped hands and stepped apart.

Napoleon turned to the drink tray and looked around. After a moment, he found a pack of matches and put them next to the drinks. “I’ll take this outside. Bring the disk?”

Without looking at Illya, Napoleon walked out to the balcony. 

Listening to the interior as he set up the drinks, he didn’t hear anything for a long few moments, then Illya’s footsteps went into Napoleon’s bedroom. Coming out, the footsteps came straight to him, Illya reemerging into his view, already working on prying the computer disk open to get to the tape.

“You know,” Illya remarked, piling the tape up inside the ash tray, “if Vinciguerra was carrying, there is water damage throughout, and tape will be mostly unusable.”

“Well, let’s take the mostly out of that statement, shall we?” Napoleon lit a match and touched it to the black tape, watching in satisfaction as it quickly caught fire.

Illya reached out and picked up his drink, watching the flames with a smile before he turned to Napoleon with a more personal variation of the smile.

Napoleon raised his own glass and they shared a silent toast to go with the moment.

 

* * *

END - Continue to Chapter 2 for Illya POV and a longer timeframe in the movie


	2. Chapter 2

## Same as Mine

### Illya POV

As Illya watched the door close behind Gaby, he returned his attention to the phone. His handler didn’t sound happy, asking about the computer disk. But that had been destroyed, gone down with Victoria Vinciguerra… Illya said as much, confused.

“Then why am I told the American has the tape?” Without waiting for an answer, the voice of his superior in the KGB continued to speak, driving blow after blow into Illya’s psyche. Reinforcing the decades of training and shame that pushed him to be the very best, and deliberately pushing him to the brink. 

Usually, Illya welcomed the red wash that would come over him as he broke, a way to direct his fury and make it work for him. He liked the way it made people cautious around him, even as he scorned their views. Usually, he accepted the assignments as the challenges they were, and sought to complete them to return for more. He didn’t care if a few things or people were bent or broken along the way, as long as the task was accomplished.

This time, though, he was being aimed in a direction he didn’t want to go. His fingers trembled on the phone, and he looked out the window blindly. He was being watched. They were all being watched. They knew. They knew he hadn’t finished his mission, and they had thought _he_ knew. His handler was pulling out every blow that usually sent him on his way, furious to prove himself. 

He was furious now, but not in a way they would have anticipated. 

Hanging up the phone carefully, Illya tried to hold onto himself. He would not.

_Complete your mission._

_Kill the American._

The last hadn’t been repeated in this call, and there had initially been a “if you need to” in there, but that had always been just for show. They had wanted the American dead, though secondary to the tape itself. The American was a prized agent, and his loss would be significant. The tape was all-important, a key part of a puzzle both countries had been working on. It was the German scientists who had been the furthest along the path, pushed by their ambitious leader. After the war, the Soviet Union and the Americans had divided up the scientists, just as they had divided up the country, and had doubled the ambitions. There was an opportunity to be not just a world power here, but _the_ world power, and the war had given them the taste and the hunger for it. Both of them. 

Illya didn’t usually care about that. He just wanted to do his duty and be the best. 

But there was one who was better than he. A thief, a con-man, a womanizer. The agent the KGB wanted to kill. Illya’s savior. 

There had been no need, no need at all, for Solo to pull him out of the water after the boat had exploded. In fact, Solo could have gotten clean away in the compound’s certitude that both intruders were dead. It wouldn’t have hurt the mission to let Illya drown, and probably would have helped it. Gaby could have acted shocked at what her fiancé had been and Rudi would have snatched her up in the guise of comfort. Solo would have drifted in, supporting quietly and coming in to rescue her when needed. Instead, saving Illya from the boat had strained the credibility of their covers to the point where rips and tears showed through and the paper-thin belief barely held. Gaby’s betrayal hadn’t even been necessary to destroy them, and was the only thing to salvage her. Waverly had been correct about that.

But Solo had never betrayed. Ever.

_Complete your mission._

_Kill the American._

With a roar, Illya overturned the table in front of him and smashed through the wood. 

_Complete your mission._

_Kill the American._

_No._

For the next several minutes, anything within reach was a target as Illya sought to destroy. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He was trained only for this, and to obey. He wouldn’t. But something had to go.

In the end, there was almost nothing left unbroken. The almost only extended to his personal tools that he required to complete his mission. Illya reached for his gun and cocked it to a ready state, putting it in his holster on that hair trigger. A dangerous way to carry a loaded weapon, but a risk he often took. Then he repeated it for his backup weapon.

Walking up the one flight of stairs, from the seventh to the eighth, Illya fought his own body with every step. Normally, he could have simply physically subdued the American and gotten the tape away from him with little effort on his part, providing he could separate the American from his own gun. Solo was good, but not physically in the same category as Illya, nor as trained. However, the cracked ribs and bone bruises that Illya had been left with after their encounter with Alexander Vinciguerra meant that he wasn’t in the best of shape right now. Worse, the American knew it. They’d been one-upping each other with “how good a spy” boasts, and the injuries had come into it. The American probably had known anyhow, considering what they had been through. There had been at least one medic check where they were within sight of each other, and Solo had probably gone into the medical records, just as Illya had done.

Solo had his own physical issues – being hit by lightning repeatedly wasn’t something a person bounced back from right away, in addition to being beaten by Alexander, but at least he wasn’t doing stupid things like tearing his hotel room up in a fit of rage. That hadn’t helped the ribs. When Illya saw red, and heard the march, nothing else mattered and he could do more than was physically possible. But he was off that edge now, and feeling the effects.

He held his hand up to Solo’s door, watching his fingers tremble. It wasn’t the trembling of the rage, though, the one he normally tried to change to control. Instead, this was trembling of a different nature. Illya clenched his hand so he wouldn’t see it, so it wouldn’t happen.

He didn’t want to kill Napoleon.

The American greeted him cheerfully and without reserve, letting the enemy into his room in full trust. He even waved Illya at the drink bar and asked him to pour. Considering what Solo had just been through, drugged by Victoria, Illya couldn’t entirely believe this was real. Maybe he was having a psychotic break and nothing here was real. He let his gaze roam the room.

There.

A glimpse of blue. Focus. Sky blue, hard plastic case, resting casually on the bed, with an expensive waist jacket partly thrown over it. 

Illya had so desperately not wanted it to be real.

Solo finished a line of chatter and leaned back to look at Illya. He caught him staring right at the tape, and as Illya jerked his gaze back, Solo’s face fell. Illya continued unscrewing the drink, and Solo returned to packing. There was, though, an obvious tension in the air, and a knowledge of deeds done in the dark and daylight. They were trained agents, the best of their countries. They knew the writing and the game when the stakes were this high.

And Illya might know it, but he didn’t want this. He just didn’t know how to get out of it. 

He carefully poured out the shots of whiskey, longing to just grab one up and drink it down. Fresh oblivion, and a release from this reality. He hadn’t drunk with Gaby because he’d wanted his wits about him, even with the relative quiet of that evening. With Solo, it didn’t matter so much. Solo would watch as well and the comradery was worth more than the loss of an edge. Or would have been. Now, it was unlikely they’d ever get to those drinks he’d just poured.

 _I don’t have to shoot to kill. Maybe if I just wound him?_ But wound him where? It was true that not all gun shots were fatal. It was also true that many of them were. Illya knew that from experience. The difference was location, but location was a tricky thing, particularly with a moving target. 

He could go for the legs, but if Solo ducked down, which he was likely to do, the bullet would then be in a gut position, or worse, a head shot. Arm was just as bad, since a turning body would bring the torso into play. Even if he did hit a leg, what if an artery was severed? Sometimes there were bare millimeters between life and death when it came to bullets in the human body. 

“You… feeling okay?”

How could Solo even _ask_ something like that? Of course he wasn’t. Nothing was okay. Nothing ever would be ever again. There was still a mission to complete, and a target to kill. The tape was more important, but there was no way Solo would just let him have it. Maybe he could ask? Right. No. That would be stupid.

As he put the cap back on the decanter, Illya looked across the room. Solo turned to face him, worry writ across his face. _He knows._ Illya managed a smile and a nod. He thought he managed. He probably didn’t, not really. 

Solo turned back to his packing, an obvious tell that he hadn’t believed the Russian in the least.

Illya didn’t want to kill him.

The American was still trying to make casual conversation, despite his obvious caution. Two agents, trying to out-agent the other. He was asking if after this, Illya would go back to Russian. Mission accomplished. Earlier, he’d been saying things would go back to normal. 

It wasn’t accomplished. Not while that tape was sitting there. How Illya hated that tape right now. Back to normal? Back to Russia? There was nothing left anymore – what _could_ be after this? Mission accomplished meant only one thing at this point. If Illya didn’t kill Napoleon and get the tape, if the Americans ended up with it after all this, then his position in the KGB would be dog shit. He would probably go to the camps and the hospitality there. If he didn’t get sent to Siberia, he’d be killed outright. It was the fate of those who failed on this level. The camps was the best he could expect, just like his father. His father had done it… maybe they would see each other again. Illya almost relaxed at the idea, and his voice came out close to normal. “Something like this. You?”

Of course, considering how the reunion between Gaby and her father had ended up, maybe a camp meeting wouldn’t be the best thing. 

“New York.” Even as he answered, Solo didn’t turn around again. There was probably a gun. Illya would have had one there, within easy reach. There was also a mirror on the dresser table, that Solo was probably watching him from. Solo knew well what Illya was here for, and he wasn’t going to make it easy.

Now there was a thought. How could the KGB possibly blame Illya, if Illya was dead? It wasn’t a very good thought, because then Illya would be dead, but Napoleon would be alive, and that would be good. Dead one way or the other… maybe it was better if it was by Solo’s hand instead. This mission wasn’t one Illya wanted to accomplish.

Illya pulled the zipper on his jacket down, weighing possibilities.

His hand on the gun handle, familiar and comfortable. A draw he could do in his sleep, and had done on occasion. Pulling now on someone who, in another life, might have been a friend. Someone who had saved his life. Who was Illya, to take it now? This was not a chess game. Or was it? In the end, a king would topple, one way or another.

Solo turned quickly, his hand flashing out. The stance was completely wrong for a gun. He was throwing something? Something his voice was saying he meant to give Illya.

It was a struggle to switch between reflexes, his training going for the gun automatically, his logic trying to derail that before the electrical stimulation hit his nerves for the command. In the end, there wasn’t a thing he could really do other than watch his own instincts take over. His instincts had gone for the catch and Illya sighed in relief before his mind registered what he held. 

It was impossible. Illya flipped his father’s watch over, seeing the inscription there and verifying it truly was his father’s watch, before he turned it again and strapped it on his wrist, where it belonged. His reminder, his ground, his only bit of reminder of when things had been innocent and good, illusion that it had been. Still, it felt right, the ghost feel of a missing weight around his wrist replaced with the reality instead. 

Somehow. Maybe he really had had that psychotic break after all. Illya looked up to meet Napoleon’s gaze. The American was standing carefully still, waiting to see what Illya would do. 

That was real enough. Mistrust and caution, Yet… Napoleon had thrown the watch. Not the gun. 

Illya bypassed his curiosity over how Solo had gotten the watch to the more important matter. “You know what my mission was?” Is. Was. Hadn’t been. Had been. Was. Was not. Successfully failed.

“Same as mine,” Solo quirked an understanding grin at him. “To kill me, if necessary,” the agent finally moved, stepping to the other side of his bed as he spoke. He picked up the rich waistcoat, exposing fully the computer tape there. “To get that,” the American almost spat the last word, his distaste apparent.

The same. They were the same. Only neither of them were dead.

Suddenly light-headed, Illya leaned against the wall behind him, but it wasn’t enough to hold him and he found himself sliding down, his ribs protesting along the way. He fetched up on the ground, dizzy and hurting with more than simply pain. He put his head in his hands, trying not to feel. 

The weight of the watch on his wrist reassured him. Solo had given it to him, along with his trust. Solo hadn’t killed him. Illya hadn’t killed Solo.

It was not something he would normally say, but it had to be. They were the same. “I did not want to kill you,” Illya said quietly. He dropped his hands, too tired to keep them up. It had been so close. 

Solo made a derisive sound in the back of his throat. For a moment, Illya wasn’t sure, but then the American continued with words. “Oh, that was obvious, Peril.” 

The nickname reassured him. And, well, he deserved the statement too. Idly, Illya wondered if there were any monitoring devices in Solo’s room. The American wasn’t always as thorough as he should be. If so, the CIA and KGB were getting an earful. Or the Brits. He wondered if any of the devices he’d thought were the American’s were actually from Gaby, carefully structured in case of discovery for that very impression. He and Solo would have to compare counts of bugs later, to see if there were extras.

He could hear as the American approached, but he was startled when Solo chose to sit on the floor beside him. Illya looked to see if Solo was wounded after all. But no, he looked just the same, dapper and elegant, smooth and reassuring, in control and relaxed. The only sign of what they had just been through was the sympathy in the rich blue eyes, the dark rim around the edges highlighting the concern.

“I didn’t want to kill you, either,” the American said softly, his gaze steady upon Illya, and utterly sincere.

By his own hands, Illya had almost turned those blue eyes from rich and vibrant to dull and hazy. He had seen enough others change to know how it would have been. He shifted his gaze instead to the tape on the bed, loathing it in a way he had never loathed anything but his superiors before. He was the best the KGB had, and he followed rules, and obeyed their orders. He was competent and efficient and had never let them down. Yet they still used the knife on him when it suited them, when they thought he needed it. Goading him with that old shame, keeping it always in reserve and never letting it go.

Illya didn’t have partners. Not with his background, not with other agents. “I work best alone.” He’d said that before to Solo, and Solo to him. He struggled to explain some of what he was thinking, how it was, why it was. “As agents, we are taught not to trust, to tear apart for weakness, to compete for best. They do not trust me, and I will not them.” 

Solo flashed a dangerous smile, harkening back to the sharp edges underneath the smooth exterior. “Me either.” There was a predator under that soft, fine fur of his. A snow leopard, reclining until the prey was sighted. 

In its own way, it was reassuring. Solo was both the same and opposite of Illya. He didn’t play by any rules at all, barely seemed to know they existed. He flaunted the authority that held his reins and didn’t pretend to respect them. Yet for all that, he was still their best, and they hated him for it. The CIA files made no bones about not trusting Solo, even as they sent him out on critical missions and partnered him with unruly Russians and Germans and English.

There wasn’t a rulebook for Solo, not like there was for Illya. Yet, here they were, sitting together and not finishing their missions together.

What had Alexander been doing with the tape anyhow? It was supposed to be with Victoria. She was the one with the nuclear warhead, the one meeting the submarine. It would have been more logical for her to have it. She should have had it. She’d said she had it.

The frustration boiled up within him until it came out. “I wish tape truly had blown up!” If it had, they wouldn’t be in this position now.

“That… is a very good idea, my friend,” Solo’s voice was low and thoughtful as he replied seriously to Illya’s wild outburst.

 _My friend?_ Illya blinked, unsure if he’d heard correctly. Had he meant it? As a con-man, Napoleon often spoke soft words to his prey, luring them in. He’d never tried to use them on Illya, though, and didn’t even look like he’d noticed what he’d said. Maybe it had been reflex, not something meaningful.

With a waggle of his eyebrows, Solo pointedly looked over at the computer disk, then back at Illya. There was a mischievous grin lingering on his lips. 

Illya turned his attention back to the original conversation. It was a good idea… to blow the disk up. What a _brilliant_ idea. “Yes.” Very much, yes. No more killing, not for that. It would be gone, and the Soviet Union and the United States would have to just keep on with their arms race on their own, leaving Illya and Solo out of it. Mission accomplished. If not by what their handlers would have called it, then by what they themselves would. No more killing. Not of Napoleon, not of Illya.

Next to him, Napoleon leaned into Illya’s shoulder, a comfortable feeling. Reflexively, Illya started to move his arm up and over, so the person next to him could cuddle closer in, but then he remembered who this was. Solo might be leaning on him, but he was still a man and an agent. Illya wasn’t sure if the other would take that as an insult or not, even if he’d started it. Instead, Illya contented himself with leaning as well, feeling the solid press alongside him.

Trust. Comfort. Relaxing with another person and not having to be on the alert for what they would do. Such a rare thing. Even with Gaby, Illya had never let down his guard, not like this.

It wasn’t that Illya had no friends – he did, but they tended to be scientists, engineers, chess players. Not agents who were his equal in death and experience. And when they remembered, or were reminded, that Illya was KGB, they were frightened, rightfully so. KGB could do anything in the Soviet Union, and not be questioned by any except those in their own rank, or the Ministry.

Napoleon Solo had never been afraid of him. Not even when Illya had the American in a headlock and could have broken his neck without a pause. He’d struggled… but upon his release, he’d sat calmly, vulnerable back to the one who had beaten him. Not afraid, not really. As they’d gone through the mission, the more skills Illya showed, the _friendlier_ Solo got. Bickering, yes, but in a friendlier fashion the further along they’d gotten. Even other KGB were more wary of Illya the more they knew him. Solo just relaxed more the more he knew.

Without stirring from his position alongside Illya, Solo spoke quietly. “Don’t ever try to make me kill you again,” Barely heard by Illya himself, there was no chance of a microphone picking it up.

Illya quirked a grin that Solo probably couldn’t see. So the American had thought that was the way it had been going? “I was the one about to kill you.” Not really, but Solo didn’t know that, and didn’t need to know.

There was a movement along his shoulder, dark hair brushing his cheek and making a waft of cologne float up by his nose as Solo shook his head briefly. “Peril, I know you, and you weren’t even making an effort. You knew I knew. There was only one way that was going to end.”

Okay, maybe Napoleon did know. Illya shrugged. He hadn’t really been trying that hard. Too confused. Trying too hard to think of something else, anything else. It would have fooled most other people. Other people, though, were not the American agent. That had been a possibility all along, and it wasn’t like Solo would have killed him in cold blood. “It would have been self-defense.” He’d been hoping to avoid that scenario, but hadn’t seen how. There had been no time. “I hadn’t thought it through.” Parts of it, but not the whole. Not to the end. Definitely not to this end. 

Tartly, Solo snapped, “Or thought about what I would feel, after.” 

Despite his words, the agent was still against his side, almost cuddling but without the arms. His head was turned to Illya’s shoulder. Feelings. Agents didn’t feel, not after a target was eliminated. Regret, sadness, anger, yes. That they did feel, sometimes. But none of that was what Solo implied. Illya considered it for a moment, then shook his own head. “You would have been alive.” That was the only important thing, after all. Though Illya hadn’t _really_ wanted to die himself. 

Solo shuddered, a reflex of revulsion that Illya felt along his whole body. Almost, Illya reached to stroke him through it, but he stopped himself. Unaccountably, he felt ashamed for having pushed it so far, though at the time, he couldn’t see his way out. “I had not decided.” Leaving. He could have simply left. The words of his superiors was very faint in his mind now, and the only sounds that of Napoleon breathing against him. Illya thought he might have to steal some of the cologne, to remind him after this that there were things out there besides duty.

Almost mumbling into his shoulder, Napoleon had one more thing to say. “Don’t. Not ever again.” It was a command, not a suggestion or a thought. The American excelled at commands.

“Alright, Cowboy,” Illya replied quietly, meaning the words completely. He wouldn’t. Not ever again would he ever try to kill Napoleon, nor make … his friend? Could he call him that? Maybe. He would not make his friend kill him. Napoleon was correct - it wouldn’t be right. This that they had now was the thing that was right. 

They stayed there like that for what seemed like a long time. Illya made no effort to move, and instead spent the time alternating between experiencing and memorizing for the future. It would be something more intangible than his watch, and more true. They would never be able to take this away from him. They didn’t know, and even if they somehow guessed, they would never get him to believe anything else. He had this of Napoleon, and he would keep it safe inside. Not locked away, because it would do him no good there, but someplace they could not get to, where he would guard it with all that he was. Someplace he could go, when he needed it. The Main Camp Administration might get his body someday, but they would never have this piece of his soul.

Illya wasn’t ready when Solo stood up. The other man stretched, his arms going out and the shirt pulling across his chest. Illya watched, drinking this in as well. No fear. Solo had no fear of him at all.

As if he heard Illya’s thoughts, the American reached a hand down, holding it out. There were any number of judo moves that could be made with an opening like that. But not with the trust that it implied. Illya took the hand and also rose, barely restraining a snarl and wince as his abused ribs made themselves known, loudly. He would have get them re-taped, and probably by another professional. At least the KGB medical personnel knew not to question him too closely on how he got his injuries.

It was a moment before he realized that Napoleon hadn’t moved away after pulling him up. No other person could get that close to him without triggering his defenses. For sex, yes, but wasn’t that another type of war? Gaby had been this close, but there had also been tension between them that was both the attraction and the danger. With Napoleon, there was just them.

After a moment more, Solo finally turned away. Illya closed his eyes briefly, not knowing what this new thing was, but not wanting it to end. If Solo had been a kitten, Illya could have picked him up and taken him away with him. But he wouldn’t have done that either, because pets too, were vulnerable. When Illya found kittens, he usually tried to find homes for them instead. His was no home for any other than temporary. And Cowboy was no kitten; even a snow leopard kitten. Though the image made Illya grin. 

Solo picked up the drink tray and dropped some matches on it. “I’ll take this outside,” he said cheerfully. “Bring the disk?”

Illya swallowed as he watched the other agent walk out to the balcony. They were going to burn it there? In full view of every agent that watched them? CIA, KGB, their handlers, the English, the Italians, the Swedes… Hell, the building next door was made up of more internationals than a meeting of the United Nations.

Well. That would be one sure way to let everybody know where the disk was and what had happened to it. Illya wouldn’t even have to call in to try and explain. Though some agencies wouldn’t believe it, they would think they had substituted or duplicated it. Illya paused. How did he even know this really did have the right information on it? Or had Solo put out bait for him? 

Illya shook his head. It didn’t matter. They would burn the disk and that would be the end. His career would be toast along with it, and he would never be trusted for anything else ever again, but that was okay. Napoleon would be fine – his agency had never trusted him anyhow. This would just be one more thing for them to be disgusted at, but they wouldn’t hurt him.

With a shrug, Illya went into the bedroom and picked up the disk, weighing it within his hand. Such a little thing, for so much trouble. He would be glad when it was gone. 

On the balcony, the ashtray didn’t seem large enough for all the tape that was being unwound into it. His photographer’s eye caught streaks and blemishes on the tape that spoke of damage on the film. There was even some mud there. Alexander had definitely been carrying it. “There is much water damage here - the tape is mostly unusable.”

“Let’s take the mostly out of that statement, shall we?” Solo lit a match and touched it to the black tape. It quickly caught fire, burning high with a lovely orange and yellow shade.

 _Yes._ This was right. Illya reached out and picked up his drink, turning to his friend with joy. They might die later, but for now they had this. Napoleon’s teeth glinted as he returned the delight and the gesture, toasting the moment.

Settling back against the railing, Illya pulled out his treated sunglasses and slipped them on. He could see glints of binoculars and scopes all around them. Yes, this was going to be big news. The wires were probably lighting up in headquarters all over the world right now. He smiled grimly and sipped at his drink. It was a good whiskey. The American kept a fine bar. He was still surprised that Solo was drinking at all, but he guessed this probably hadn’t been the first time the American had been drugged. It wasn’t like any agent could stop eating or drinking altogether – and they’d be damn conspicuous if they did. All you could do was keep going from where you were.

Solo drained his drink and poured another. He turned to look over the railing, where all their viewers were probably looking back. He heaved a dramatic sigh. “Absolutely hated working with you, Peril.” His voice was loud and cheerful – fodder for the listeners.

Illya had never been a rebel before. It was a surprisingly comfortable position to be in, and incredibly satisfying, if somewhat dark on the horizon. He thought he was beginning to understand where the American had been all this time. A rebel didn’t mean you weren’t good at what you did – it simply meant you’d do it your own way, if it was what you wanted to do. Not the way of a good agent, usually. 

“You’re a terrible spy, Cowboy,” Illya replied to both Solo and the unseen audience. 

They raised their glasses to each other in another toast, and drank in perfect accord.

“Good evening, gentlemen.”

They both started at the voice intruding on their moment. Illya started to stand, but then settled back again when he saw it was Waverly, with Gaby at his side.

The British agent was in fine fettle, sardonic and smooth, remarking on the “bonfire” and calling it a good idea. Illya narrowed his eyes. Even for all the agents watching out there, this was a quick approach. The tape was still burning. Why?

“I have news. Your superiors have kindly agreed to let me keep the team for awhile. We leave in an hour.” 

In Waverly fashion, there were more words – many more words, but Illya let them stream through, only collecting the main points. Those being 1) They were being kept together 2) Waverly was in charge 3) Their handlers had agreed. A fourth minor point was a new mission, but that was far, far below the other three. Solo turned to look at Illya with disbelief. Illya was feeling somewhat the same. 

“Where are we going?” he demanded. If it was Siberia, he was going to jump off this balcony right then and there. 

“Istanbul, Kuryakin. You’ll need your curly-whirly shoes.” 

For some reason, the British agent delighted in poking at Illya. He’d done it on the plane as well. Illya had noticed he hadn’t done the same to Napoleon. He didn’t know what to make of the barbed teasing; it was beyond his experience so far.

Waverly walked away from them, leaving Gaby in the ‘team’. “Oh, and you have a new code name.”

Solo was the one who asked about that. 

“Uncle.” The laughter in Waverly’s voice was apparent.

Illya didn’t think the name was that good, or funny. He didn’t think this whole new thing was that good. Not being dead was good, and together… that was also good. But what was behind it was politics, and that was never good.

The three of them stared after Waverly until he went back inside. 

Sharing a glance, Solo and Illya were apparently in perfect accord again. What was this all about? Illya supposed he should be happy that he wasn’t going back to the KGB… but he couldn’t forget that Waverly was the one who had ordered Gaby to betray them. Not to mention… how, exactly, had the KGB heard that Napoleon had the tape? Illya was starting to think he’d been part of one elaborate long sting operation. From the glum look in Solo’s eyes, the other agent thought the same. The con artist who had been conned and played. The agents who had been… traded? Traded for what? What would their new handler expect out of them?

Downing his drink, Illya thought it would be the very last he would have for awhile. Napoleon was setting his back on the table, carefully removing himself from it. 

Gaby turned around to them, a smile on her face and ready to be part of this “team” again. At the obvious not-so-happy reactions of her teammates, she paused, her face falling before she schooled it into careful non-emotion. As Solo turned away from her to look again over the balcony, Gaby glanced back at where Waverly had disappeared, her initial confidence wavering.

At some point, they would have to fill her in. For all her British agent status, Gaby was essentially brand new – she’d been a sleeper agent for two years, waiting just for the one mission. She didn’t have any idea of what lay behind everything. Or maybe she did – she was, after all, the one who had been ordered to betray them, and had done it for the mission. But right now, she probably thought that the betrayal was the main thing on their minds and that they didn’t trust her and didn’t want her in the ‘team’.

That wasn’t at all the case, and not what was happening, but this wasn’t the time to tell her. 

Illya turned away from both of the others, staring over his end of the balcony. Would the KGB let him go that easily? He had proven himself disloyal to them in the end. Half of those scopes out there were sure to have him in their sight, and the other half had Napoleon. The two of them, defying their people. Yet, here they were. The tape was only now starting to smolder to embers. Waverly had stepped in too quickly. There hadn’t been enough time.

It had to have been prearranged. Yet there was no way either the CIA or the KGB would have let Solo or Illya go without retrieving the tape first. It had been made clear to him that that was still the priority for his country, and he was sure it was for Solo as well. Prearranged… dependent on what they would do with the tape? 

Illya shuddered to think somebody knew him well enough to predict an outcome like this. _He_ hadn’t known, not until the end. He could see his superior, however, bargaining with confidence that it wouldn’t happen. The KGB would have been sure of Agent Kuryakin. It was Waverly who had anticipated something else. The KGB would not be very happy with either of them. Solo’s position with the CIA was less problematic, and probably had been easier to arrange, if more costly upfront. 

“Are we…” Gaby trailed off, uncertain.

“We’re going to Istanbul, apparently,” Solo’s voice came smoothly in, wry amusement in his tones. He’d either gotten over it quickly or buried his reaction just as quickly. Probably both. Footsteps indicated he was heading towards Gaby. That was good. He was better with soothing Gaby than Illya was. Napoleon would take care of it.

Illya didn’t think he would adjust as well, or hide it as well. And this balcony was too exposed.

With a shrug directed at both Solo and Gaby, Illya brushed past them and went into the room, away from all the eyes. Inside, he hesitated for a moment, then with a wry amusement of his own, he went into the bathroom and locked the door. It was, after all, traditional now.

He would come out later, when he was ready to be part of a team. 

Either that, or they would break down the door to get to him. No… Napoleon would simply pick the lock.

Illya didn’t know what was behind this new game, and he didn’t trust it, and didn’t trust Waverly. But they were alive, and the mission accomplished in a very Solo-like manner, and, somehow, they were still together, along with Gaby. That was a lot, lot more than he’d had just a very short time ago. 

Maybe. Maybe this would be a good thing after all.

The feel of the watch on his wrist combined with the scent of cologne in the bathroom, and Illya let himself hope.

Uncle, indeed.

* * *

END


End file.
